Generational
by Days-Like-These
Summary: It started with Buchanan, passed down Eisenhower, and now ... well, you see the pattern don't you? The Holts just can't catch a break, I guess.
1. The Silent Generation

**-The Silent Generation-**

_Clunk._

Snow drifted in after him, fluttering to a halt on the worn straw rug. He scraped the bottom's of boots against the mat then shoved the footwear off with his toes, only too reveal near frost-bitten feet: his socks were soggy with winter fun, too.

Buchanan was jet-lagged to an extreme he'd thought unnatainable. The excitement and pressure of the last few days had been weighing down on him the whole ride home, and he'd already planned out the rest of his evening: decompress.

He sauntered tiredly through the front hall, shouldering off his duffel on his way.

The abode he called home-sweet-home, was the sheer image of wholesome living. A kitchen for the missus, a play-room for the chilluns, and a living room for the man to do his living. And it would always be that way, he'd enter sluggishly after another strenuous day of being modern man, the chilluns'd squeal in delight with his return and skip eagerly to the pop's side for a pat on the head, and as he eased his way into his- _ea-zee there_- recliner, the missus would make her appearance with the regular banter of 'How was your day's or 'I'm so glad to have you home's.

Except there was no missus or chilluns. He was modern man in his modern American house-hold ... with no modern American family to greet him. At his age- almost all of thirty- and with all his tireless effort, his tireless work for his country-

[-_C'MON already uncle Sam you said you wanted me you-_]

Nevertheless- no matter how _frequent_ that fact badgered him (every time he walked into his empty house, these days)- this house was his house, and a veritable comfortable one-

[_-got me whadda I got to show for I work harder than ANYBODY my flag is the BIGGEST on Independence day I DESERVE_-]

more or less.

Besides, there was, at least, one saving grace.

The sofa-_ his_ sofa, double-seated, cotton-cushioned, and soft, navy throw pillows. Fit for a _man_'s posterior- especially if that man's behind was numb from a fifteen hour flight. It was really glorious sight to behold, and just a few steps ahead.

Dragging his raw feet, his was stride hurried and restless as he made his way over and flopped down ungracefully. With his face smothered in the stained cushions of _his_ sofa, Buchanan let forth a ragged sigh into the crusty fibres. Thoughts of relaxation flowed with an ease, and at last, he could finally act on them. "Huuum."

Yes, he was huuum at last.

A minute passed before he could bring his head from between the cushions, and it took him a moment, but he forced himself into a sitting position and flopped his head back lazily. Having the time to actually think now, he found it a little funny how something as effortless as being a plane passenger could tucker a fellow out faster than the Olympic trial he'd taken the flight for.

He closed his eyes, serene, content just to sit there and soak in every minute detail of relaxation.

Maybe an instant passed, then the phone belt out a warble, and his eyes shot back open.

It took a short, breathy grunt but he pulled his head up to see the phone sitting on the end table beside him. It was state of the art, but Buchannan never _liked_ technology: it was too hard to figure out, and it broke too easily. And this was an ugly thing, he'd decided long ago. Clunky and expositional, occupying his entire table, and what an awful shape it's finger-holes were, like the pull-rings for ten different hand-grenades.

But, it was presented as a gift from the Tomas branch, a reward of sorts, and it's not like he could deny their generosity.

That didn't mean he had to like it, though.

With a reluctant hand, he detached the phone from it's hook and spoke to it's speaker. "Yes, uh, hello?"

Buchanan anticipated a football buddy, or his girlfriend, or even another Tomas- somebody sending praise and acclaim for his indefinite acceptance into this year's Olympic home-team.

In lieu of adulation, he was met with a German rasp utterly foreign to him. "_The document you had delivered on January third, nine fifty-three of the clock, to the Tomas stronghold of Mount Fuji, has been transferred; without your or your branch's consent. At this moment, it's in an undisclosed Ekaterina stronghold being examined by their top agents_."

Buchanan's blood turned to ice water in his veins, and about every organ shuddered to a halt. Even so, it was like listening to a Public Service Announcement; he recognized that it had significance, but couldn't truly grasp the diction or meaning, and accordingly, it was the importance alone that rocked him. He licked his lips. "... _What? _Who- who is this?"

"_We have alerted your branch-head to the document's whereabouts_."

Rage overpowered cold fear as he growled harshly through teeth: "Listen to me, you smooth-talking Commie-"

"_We have also alerted him to_ your_ whereabouts, and your fellow agents will be arriving promptly_."

A swift few strides carried him to the blinds of the window looking out to his spacious back-yard. Buchanan separated two blinds and carefully peeked out, finding a tactical force of burly men and women undoing themselves from parachute harnesses. Terror widened his eyes, and it rose to it's fullest height as he saw the Tomas crest on their military-esque uniforms.

As his panic clogged his throat, he could hear the other line intake something- cigar smoke, maybe (Boy, oh, boy, Buchanan could've used a light)- before speaking again in his direct way. "_I would like to thank you, Mr. Holt. Quite personally. Most sabotages are not as satisfying; your work with your branch was at least good for that, if not, of course, destroying the lives of innocents as a vehicle for your absurd aggression_."

"Hold on one hot _minute_, bub, who _ARE_ you?" he was thundering with a boiling brew of confused emotion- ire, fear, denial, and something like a queer touch of remorse for the truth the German spoke.

The voice chuckled as if Buchanan had a very good humour. "_Goodbye, Mr. Holt_."

"WHO AM I SPEAKING WITH?"

Windows crashed inwards as a swarm, like army ants in their tactless formations, erupted into his house. The frames and vanity mirror in the front hall quaked with the anarchy, and the kitchen table was turned onto it's side with the stream bursting through the kitchen. Just then, Buchanan fell to the ground, his knees no more able to bear the reality then he was.

The agents were armed, and in fact, he was pointed at by at least forty different barrels- all cocked and aimed for vitals. His face made friends with the floor and he let loose an inarticulate cry. Another reason why he didn't like technology. It made for unfair fights.

From the chaos of the blitz, a giant fist was clenched overhead, as if asking for silence over the incredible torrent of 'GET DOWN's attacking him. A single man came forward, an agent not unlike the others, but certainly higher-ranking. "Buchanan Hamilton Holt," his voice was a thunder-crack above the commotion. "you've been accused of treason to the Tomas branch."

Buchanan yelled his incredulous protest, but the man went on in that brassy, booming voice of his- a voice Buchanan thought familiar. "Currently, you'll be taken under lock and key to your trial in the Tomas stronghold on Alcatraz Island. There, you'll defend your hide against the most incriminating evidence we can throw at you, but if you ask me," he jerked Buchanan's head up by his raven locks and came nose to nose with his mortified features; the man's squinted eyes peered out over his sunglasses. "you're in a heap a trouble, Bucky Boy."

The man could see aghast betrayal rise in accordance to registering his identity. Then: a paroxysm of all his conflicting emotion built into a single cry of, _"YOU!"_

Or what sounded like it, anyway.

The man sneered distastefully then stepped back, growing to his full height. He regarded Buchanan impassively, save for the disgust he conveyed in his voice: "No, you. It don' matter what you say or how you justify it on trial, 'cause you deserve worse than you get, and you should _know_ it. You've done amazing things for us, Buck, nobody's denying that, and it was swell working with you; but now you should _bleed_."

Buchanan was hysterical. Though, when he went to scream, it stopped dead in his throat- forcibly. He trembled with emotion, but clamped his mouth shut, swallowed, and resolved the crease on his forehead. He would keep a cool head, this was all a mistake- maybe even a practical joke!- and the best thing to do when some jerk get's your goat in pre-game smack-talk, is to talk right back, straight-faced.

So, his testimony dropped to a taut, authoritive statement. The fury lingered, but was now a cautionary signal; crystal clear, blunt, and certain in it's influence and the willingness to carry out on the threat. As if to exenterate, he held up his shaking hands innocently (not helplessly, mind you, but he made it clear he couldn't hold back if necessary). He even laughed a little. "Fellas, I didn' do nothin'."

The agents surrounding became suddenly weary, and a handful had to lower their weapons in compliance; he made it so easy to believe him, his southern drawl soothed the ear, and the fimiliar snigger he gave bore pleasant memories- now seeming more like dreams- to their heads from times of victory. It rattled them to have those precious visions tainted- to feel duped but to not know by who- and obviously the big chief could see their hesitance.

He scowled back at them. "He's throwin' a _show_- didn't ya'll see 'im running scared just a minute ago? Tryin' ta pull one over you, don't-cha see? Knuckle-head here thinks we's as dumb as the Ekats say!"

Now, he'd done it. The Ekat-Tomas banter always drew blood, and everyone knew it. Smooth-talk was suicide.

"Sweet Christ, I thought you had a little more faith in me, men! What's the matter with you?" His voice came out perfectly reasonable, but it was evident he'd become something of a human pressure-cooker; his face was red as wine and his hands were flittering in a wild dance to prove his point. It was a jarring, especially to his uneasy peers teetering on the fence.

The big chief had no patience. "All right, fun's fun, but just book him already- we've got a trial to head to." When no one made a move, he flared his nostrils and shouted back at them, "One of you! C'mon, Ladies, hustle!"

"No," Buchanan snaps with enough severity to stave off tackle. "You can't do that. None of you can, I'm your commanding officer- if not your_ friend_." He's pleading to them, physically, however level he keeps his voice. He's showing each one his shadowless hand-puppets and passing out either looks of impatience and outrage, or jaw-trembling fear.

"By order of law 384, we must," remind the big chief, aggravated.

"You can't because I didn't _do_-"

"We've found conclusive and incrim'nating evidence!" Now he turns to the crowd, "He's a _liar_, a schemer- no better than a dang Lucian! Listen to _me_! He out-right _lied_ and knew he was doing it- for twenty five years! To each and every one of you- me included, and you know I'd know."

Some, as antsy as the chief started in on Buchanan, but others stood there, dumbfounded, and forefrontly, conflicted.

The big chief's anger spiked. "He _lied_ to you- and you're just gonna take it? He betrayed us all and- and you think I _like_ this? My own kid-brother- a double-crossin' cheat! How- how long you think he's been scheming? He's a dirty cheat! A liar and a dad gum dirty cheat, and you're jus' standin' there? What sortta Tomas are any a you!"

Buchanan thrust a meaty finger at his brother. "_Quiet, Fillmore!"_

"He's a dirty lying cheat and jus' look- _jus' look_ what he's doing! Manipulatin' his own people! He been sneaking to the Ekats- _and he's a dirty cheat, dad gum dirty cheat!" _Fillmore Holt was as red-faced as his brother.

"That's_ IT_!" Buchanan turned on the crowd. "You're not gonna li- _GET OFF ME_," he bucked off and drove away the arms and barrels digging at him. "_You're not listening to him, are you?" _

A few faltered, but ultimately, the entire barrage closed in on him. Maybe just because, in that moment, Buchanan Holt was nothing of the great dignitary they knew.

His hysterics swelled. "_YOU CAN'T SERIOUSLY _DO_ THIS, LIKE I SAYS_," the great number of agents trying to pin down and buckle up Buchanan were shaken off with every word rage-filled word: "I-DIDN'T-DO-NOTHING!"

Fillmore grunted, exasperated. "_Finally_."

Before he could make an escape Fillmore pulled Buchanan's massive biceps behind him. His furious struggle came to a reluctant halt when Buchanan heard the_ click_ of his own handcuffs. He realized his doom from the hands up.

From there it was a doleful walk, like the last mile to the electric chair, he later imagined. Fillmore, the only man to ever rival his size, escorted him personally to a chopper parked smack dab in the middle of the glistening Fairway Drive. A commotion had broken out among the residents: men, women, and children alike brought from the cozy intimacy of their beds to the crisp chill of the winter night.

Buchanan knew he wouldn't be coming back. Not after he'd been made a spectacle. He knew how people talked around those parts, how they'd deem him a felon- just as his own branch had.

As he stepped into the bulbous aircraft, Buchanan couldn't help but winch at the thought. His own branch thought him a traitor. Those words meant more than words ever should. They meant he'd be on trial for treason- a crime he'd never in a million, billion _centuries_ commit. Those words meant he could be banned from team sports- the Cahills' reach was far, and if they thought it was treason, they'd make sure his life was in complete ruin.

Most of all, he realized with a cold numbness, it meant he wouldn't be eligible for the clue hunt- the search which his family had been partaking in for sumless generations. Sports were everything, but the pursuit for clues- that was absolutely _everything_.

He couldn't be banned, _oh, Lordy, no_, if he was out of the chase, a disgrace to the branch- a black sheep to all he held dear ...

Incredulous panic- a sheer, raw sort that strangled his airways- came upon Buchanan Holt the instant his brother's helicopter started off with him inside. If this was really happening, and this wasn't a ridiculous nightmare ...

His view of our world numbed. His senses limped ever so unnaturally, and his mind found itself veiled in the gloomy shroud of nature's broken spirit: the pessimist. His life- the entire career of his existence shattered to dust. And a breeze was due East.

"You're a- ..." his brother's resiliant voice died in his throat. Fillmore hadn't so much as looked at him since they'd left Buchanan's American Dream Home. Later- an early mourning much later, where no sleep had come to him- he got to wondering why that was.

Absolutely shattered.

(o)(O)(o)

_A/N: I just have to say that in the actual 39 Clues universe, we don't really know for sure if Buchanan was a Vesper agent or not. Here, I've given him the benefet of the doubt, and made him play victim, but he might still be in Cahills vs. Vepers. (Oh, and there's a reason to Fillmore ... you know, existing)._

_I really hope you enjoyed it some- if not, please, PLEASE, tell me how I could do better! Also, if you have any questions, don't hesitate (I don't bite; I might poke you to death, but no biting) :)_

_This is DLT, signing off._


	2. Generation X

**-Generation X-**

_Clink._

Post in hand, Arthur shut the mailbox and he filed through the letters as he would a flip-book. The hallowed halls he'd trudge through were alive with the buzz of conversation, and weary cadets settling down for the day.

Like a bustling metropolis, West Point had it's an unspoken systems. If you were going one way, you'd stay on he left, if you were headed the other, it was the right. Arthur could easily picture a younger West Point being the exact same way, and so the practiced flow was simple to follow, even with his eyes down.

Accordingly, muscle memory steered him up and down twisting corridors until he came to the door engraved with his assigned digits. Still invested in the postage, he pushed the ajar door into a room he knew well. It was all his and his roomate's own- and the only one to reek of both jersey sweat and aged book glue. The walls were decorated with gold medals on one side, and book shelves staring them down from the other; and as much excercise eqiuptment and study notes they could find room for were stuffed into every corner. Sweet wholesome home.

When Arthur continued forward, to his roomate's bed, a sideways smirk grew on his lips. "Pumping the guns?"

His friend grinned up from his barbell cheekily. "Well, I ain't pumping your sorry mama."

A scoff sounded. "You really wanna start something? Really?" an eyebrow was raised as he scanned the labels on phone bills. "You and I both know who's got who beat for comebacks."

Eisenhower grunted dismmisively and began to mummble. "A fist's all the comeback I need ..."

"That so, Mr. Articulate?"

"Don't get smart; chicks dig scars, not internal bleeding," he advised. The young man was twice the size of his roomate if not three times over, but that never seemed to faze Arthur. Arthur kept a cool-head no matter what was happening, and it was easy for Eisenhower to be friends with someone who could tolerate his booming voice and twenty-hour workout schedule. The fact of the matter was, their polarized personalities seemed to balance. Mostly, that is.

But mostly was enough for misfits.

Arthur's smirk broke into a full-fledged smile as he came upon a notice he'd been expecting. "Well, I'm _right_, at least. There's a letter here from admissions to a Mr. Meathead, and you know they aren't talking about me."

Eisenhower bolt upright. Setting his weight aside, he stood quickly and snatched away his letter. "Admissions, huh?" he exaimained it curiously.

"Mmhm, that's what I said." Arthur made way for the trash bin sitting by the door, his gaze still buried in manila. "You know, you've got a knack for saying things I just did. In fact, I thank God everyday I got a parakeet instead of a roomate who always leaves his sweat-soaked briefs all over bed; that- _that_ would be annoying. Especially if I had to keep_ yelling at him_ and _dropping explicit hints_ just as much as said inconsiderate jerk-face drops his ripe drawers on my pillows. I mean, that'd just- ..."

Arthur caught sight of his roomate eclipsing the window. Slowly, he was forced down to the bed, dazed horror tensing his muscular frame.

Arthur took a step towards him, cautious and unsure. "What's up, Doc?"

Eisenhower's focusless gaze fell on Arthur's mildly concerned features. His voice came out softer than it'd ever been: "I've been discharged."

If Eisenhower could pay much attension to anything, maybe he would've noticed Arthur's mouth twitch downwards in some unreadable emotion. That sometimes would happen with Arthur, if an emotion was extreme enough, it presented itself in a small twitch, a nuance of sorts; maybe an extra blink, maybe a sniff, but mostly, it was his mouth that gave him away. He was pretty slick, otherwise.

He was entirely still. "Man ... heavy. That sucks. They- uh ... they say why?"

Eisnenhower bobbed his head, but didn't speak- or couldn't. Either way, he was no talking bird. In contrast to Arthur.

"You know, if they don't have a darn good reason, they can't kick you out," he seemed pretty aggitated now. "And you know if they aren't even telling you why, it's because they can't- they _have_ no reason. Maybe you looked at someone funny- they get intimidated," Arthur started pacing. "they start complaining to the dean- parents get called in, you know how cowards are. Or maybe your dad- you said he's on like a parent council or something, right? That he, like, _knows_ people here? Well, say he gets in a fight- a real nasty one, maybe fists get involved and some fraidy-cat he punches gets wise that your his kid and the next thing you friggin' know- _boom!_ Letter in the box." He shook his head, "I tell you, Man, _sissies_."

Eisenhower didn't seem to be listening. He was looking to Arthur in a queer awe, jaw clenched taut; there was a peculiar and unhinging burning in his eyes that was almost condeming. When he finally spoke, it came out soft, but strong and sure. "You did it."

Arthur flicked his head to Eisenhower. "What?"

"You did it. And you know you did it, and you know what you did." It wasn't anger, or disbelief, or hurt. It was a truth, devoid of all emotion. "And you're proud."

Arthur stood there. Eisenhower sat. They watched eachother, in the deep silence of recogintion.

Eisenhower waited for something. A flicker of guilt, an apology, a realization. Nothing of the sort was discernible on Arthur's handsome features. Instead, his gaze was steely, his tone was hard, and his words were clear, "You better get a truck for all this."

(o)(O)(o)

Two large men- one young and flowering, one old and graying- hunched around an oaken dinner table. The sound of clinking sliverware danced in the air, but not much else. They'd sat down to steak in the cramp of thier kitchen, and the last bit of conversation had been a muttered, 'Pass the sauce.'

Steak for Sunday dinner, friends.

It wasn't peculiar. On average the only spoke to each other when required, and even then they had nothing to say. Even so, the added tension attached to the knowledge that Eisnhower wasn't going back to West Point afterwards held their tounges in even tigher restraighents then usual.

Neither one of them particularly liked this way of living- they were both in an anxious limbo with nothing to penetrate the awkward quietness- but, they'd been living like this for years. On account of Eisehower's mom ...

Eisenhower had become accumstumed to it, the stillness, but now more than ever, he wanted to say something. Anything'd do. His chest was tight with the words his mouth didn't how to utter. All he wanted to do was speak in his own defence- give some reason for Buchanan to believe his son _wasn't_ a total failure.

He knew there wasn't any. West Point had been the golden ticket- and what had he done? In a sole moment of enthrallment give it away for a cheap thrill?

In addition, the clue hunt just wasn't an option. He'd been lectured this time and time again. Frankly, he was sick of it. Especilly because he had just as great a chance as the next Tomas.

The odds were desolate, particularly now, that Holt would find a clue in his father's lifetime: Eisenhower's forlorn obsessions just couldn't be rose-coloured anymore, and Buchanan could barely stand to look at the map of clues posted on Eisenhower's wall.

When Buchanan finished the last of his fifth steak, he pushed away from the table, went to the sink, and started to scrub. Still the stillness held sway.

After he stuck the plate on a rack, he turned to his son.

Eisenhower looked up with bated breath, hoping so dearly for some words of comfort, or at the very least an offer to toss the pigskin.

Instead, Buchanan stood with his mouth jarred open in complete unknowing. There was just ... nothing to say. So, instead of something, he grunted what could've been, 'Mines' under his breath, then turned for the coat closet. Eisenhower was disappointed, mind you, but not surprised.

He had to assume his father had taken the late shift down in the town's coal mine- the only place the Tomas would let him use his strength. It was horrible work, too, the tunnels caved in often and men were lost in the same rate. Buchanan did it becuase, Eisenhower knew, it was the only place he was a Tomas still- the sole occasion his lumbering size was a benefit.

Eisenhower wanted to call half-time, just- something that would get his dad to acknowledge him. He didn't. From that point on, Buchanan Holt barely murmured a syllable to his son and likewise, until his untimely death three years to come. He was finally crushed under the weight of the mine.

As for Eisenhower ... fate would have it that he was crushed, too. The last chance, a disaster, the last dream, a nightmare, the last hope, up in smoke: what a joke, what a jest, ha-ha to the rest. To impress the Tomas- to register to his dad- it couldn't happen, either way.

He could hear the ignition struggling in his dad's Corrolla, but more than anything he could feel his heart become like a bar-bell in his chest. No mass had ever been too much for a Holt, but the entirty of the guilt dragging his heart to his stomach was becoming unbearable.

Positively unbearable.

(o)(O)(o)

_A/N: In terms of comparison, this is my least favourite chapter of the three. It was fun to write it, sure, but the action of the first and the, er, insert-description-of-upcoming-chapter-that-I-can't-tell-you-about-here, were even _more_ fun. _

_This is DLT, singing off._


	3. Generation Z

**-Generation Z-**

_Claaaaw-thunk_.

Faint on the wind, but easy on the ears, it came. With dew ripping scent from the lawn, birds supplying arbitrary trills, and the sky alight in a particularly wondrous, simmering twilight: it came. And with it's arrival, Hamilton barricaded his senses, successfully shutting it out.

Strenuous exertion for the mind was the equivalent of a blacksmith for his forgeries; Hamilton had found this a continual theme in his life, and the truth was entirely such then. His instincts were fine-tuned and his senses were keen to the rhythm of his surroundings. This way, he could draw close his eyelids to better his concentration on game strategy.

Low and squat in a position of scrimmage, perspiration splashed on his brow and laced though his hair, eyes shut, jaw set; the image of intimidation on the football field.

_SPEED - STRENGTH - AGILITY._

In front, a growl, from behind, a snarl in response.

_EYE OF THE TIGER - STING LIKE A BEE - NO PAIN, NO GAIN- THIS GAME'S _MINE_._

An almost victorious_ "HIKE!" _and the game roared to life. Hamilton rammed forward into a wall of muscle, hardened to the density of cement from years of callusing work. But he himself was no pushover, and so the struggle began.

Now, this battle was one he'd fought on countless occasions in his life. The back-and-forth of evenly matched opponents, wrestling for seniority. Competition in it's most evident form. Yeah, something so familiar it wouldn't surprise him to be innate, that's_ football_. It was even as if, in physical activity, he tapped into the knowledge of his ancestors, and in a moment, became entirely defined by the uniform he wore. It was glorious.

Over his own zealous hassle, he could almost sense the ball, and how it was grappled between sisters. His ally laboured to keep her grip on the pig-skin as her twin, Reagan, tackled her knees to the grass. He and she make eye contact, and she managed a sputter of, "Hammer!" before putting a twirl to the ball.

Hamilton's rival made to intercept the pass, but in a practised motion, Hamilton hurtled off his father's bicep and stole the flying object from the Cirrus clouds above.

From his mighty leap, he recovered in a quick roll, away from his gargantuan dad, into a low running stance.

Eisenhower charged his son, aiming to tackle.

Hamilton weaved, as if deciding where to escape, then at the last possible second dove under Eisenhower's legs, leaving him to grind into the soil as his son jet off behind him.

And that minute, that isolated second, Hamilton felt freedom. He was accustomed to it after all those years of breakaways, but he knew he'd never tire of it. In a mad dash for the finish, as chaos encircled, he lived truly in the moment; the ultimate impulse and the true glory of being a Tomas.

No difference was there because his father was chomping sod, and his sisters raged on in their own title fight; the chilling breeze ripped his track pants like waving flags, and the heat of his tire left him, so he could easily let himself believe he _was_ the wind-

_SPEED._

or the earth he barrelled over-

_STRENGTH._

or the birds zipping about.

_AGILITY._

He was all this and anything else.

The Holts' regulation goal post was seconds away, but his rapture screeched to a halt with a single word called from the porch, "SNACKS!"

Madison and Reagan went limp in their wrestle before screaming, "_Snacks?_" in perfect synchrony.

Hamilton watched, mind-boggled, as his sisters scrambled over each other to scamper inside. His mother beamed to him, "You two boys come in, now. You've got to fuel the engines!"

He groaned in almost physical pain as he saw his mom waving him in. Oh, but the real pain was the self-assured chuckle edging up behind him. Hamilton winched as his father's bellow grew, "I guess that's game, then. Can't do nothing about that."

Hamilton turned sharply, his smile polite and curt. "Yeah? Then who's won?"

Eisenhower grinned, "I did. I always do."

His nose wrinkled. "Sure about that? See, I was taught the team with the highest score wins, and Mad-dog n' me cleaned _UP_."

"Now, son," he took to his most condescending tone. "there aren't any winners or losers in good ol' fashioned family fun; ain't that the noise those _Madrigals_ are always going on about?" Hamilton could hear the bitterness, or rather, not. Eisenhower had never acknowledged that his children were Madrigals agents. Come to think of it, he hardly acknowledged that _weren't_ Tomas agents.

Hamilton rolled his eyes dramatically, "Madrigals want peace, not boredom," he remarked. "'Sides, we only say that so the others won't get mad when they loose Monopoly." he snickered and shook his head. "You haven't seen a brat 'til you've seen a Lucian have to sell his hotels."

"I'll keep that in mind, I guess." His father's grin was snarky and Hamilton noticed he still hadn't admitted defeat. Eisenhower flicked his neck to the side; a gesture to the house. "Go on inside, help your mom with the groceries. I'll stack this junk in the shed- looks like it might rain, you know."

Eisenhower's son gave a quick, automatic salute and transformed into a fleet jogger.

Through the den, and to the kitchen he went. It wasn't so much as familiarity, but an almost innate knowledge of his surroundings, that made this his hearth and home. Then, it's not as if he indulged in it, but could rather sense it subconsciously. After all, the warm embrace it held in store was a given, the furnishings were expected, and the memories littered through-out, in the scrape marks, and over the patched up walls were a birth-right. The only part of this he really picked up on, entering then, was how the floor was littered with sports equipment, as _always_, almost tripping him.

He grunted after stumbling. "Reagan! Pick up your stupid ballet slippers- they nearly killed me."

No response besides laughter sounded and Hamilton grumbled as he came into the kitchen.

The twins only contribution to unpacking was the ketchup and relish for their hot-dogs. Hamilton gave them the custom noogie on his way but they didn't seem to notice at this point.

Hamilton started for the plastic bags resting on the island, Reagan and Madison saw this and immediately began bickering over who's to steal his snack, and Arnold bellowed up at them, as if fighting for it, too.

Mary-Todd was smiling in the presence of this fluster. She then flittered through the mail, and the smile sunk into dreadful solemnity. Her eyes were wide with fear as she looked to her dear son. "Hamilton, you've got mail ... it's from West Point."

The scene shuddered to a stop. The sisters looked on in sudden awe, and helpless swirls of resentment, reverence, and dismay for the moment that'd been a joke all their lives stirred in their heads. Arnold the dog, who'd been taught to snarl at the mention of the school, couldn't do as much as whimper in the sombre anxiety.

Hamilton took it upon himself to silence his qualm, and hide his trembling. He felt he abrupt urge to quell the tension and fear of his family, but had so much trouble just processing the reality that he couldn't muster much more than a mutter, "I'll read it alone."

He left with the letter, but the silence still ensued.

Eisenhower began his accent up the porch.

Two figures stood in two doors. One eclipsed the window of the sitting room, the other encased the light of the kitchen. One sank. The other's heart followed, after silent conversation.

Eisenhower's stride was stiff and hurried, but terror was truly what carried him.

By the time he arrived, Hamilton's desolance had already reached a peak, as he'd finished reading. Hamilton brought up his head to his father's falling features and it took all his strength to speak in a dying voice. "I'm sorry, Dad."

Eisenhower gazed before him and saw not the valiant young man he raised, but a small boy with a guilty expression. The sight welled his eyes more than the letter could, because he knew that little boy. It'd been a while, but the wound never really healed, and Eisenhower still felt so incredibly sorry. The most horrifying thing was, he wasn't watching a mirror anymore.

Eisenhower moised forward mechanically, and took a seat beside his son. Silence clawed the air from their throats and the words from their mouths. Each boy felt so blameworthy.

Spontaneously, in a fit of agitation for everything, Eisenhower slapped his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed as firmly as he could.

Hamilton looked at it, questioningly, as if it were alien.

Eisenhower's mouth drew into a straight line, the silence still victorious in clenching his teeth, before he exhaled shortly through his nose, shook his head slightly, and patted down his hand again. "... It's okay. Son. It's- not your fault."

In a surprised and grateful tone, Hamilton replied, "Thanks, Dad." and watched a tear roll down his father's cheek, he realized, for the first time.

The father and son sat there for an unbridled second. Then, Eisenhower broke their gaze and scowled to himself. "Nuts to West Point. They don't want you, sucks to be them. You'd have been a real good cadet. You'd have gotten so many honours they'd have a hall just for you, even." he nodded. "... Real good cadet."

Hamilton smeared his few tears back into his eyes, sputtering in a bitter chuckle. "Truth is, Dad ... I never, _ever_ wanted to be a cadet." Eisenhower studied him. "I was just doing it ... well, you know, the Tomas they- ... they need to know we can. I mean, they're still so _stubborn_, and scared maybe 'cause- ... I dunno, mayb- ..." he grunted a breath in exasperation.

"You can say stuff." He said it in an encouraging tone, like one might say 'Go on.'

Hamilton double-took his glance, deciding whether or not to, but ultimately, his frustration won out. "It doesn't matter. All I mean is they don't respect us. I used to think the clue hunt would be enough- but even if we did win, I don't think they'd really care. I thought ... I'd make things right. If I fixed things at West Point, became a good agent, it'd sort of, make up- I guess?- for ..." he sent a wayward glance at his dad. "everything.

"And I after I saw what it meant to you- when I suggested West Point for college- I knew I was doing the right thing. And you know I'm not a sappy guy, Dad," he was laughing in nervousness. "but I _knew_ it was right in ... well, you know where."

"... You can say stuff. I couldn't." Eisenhower became detached, before turning on his son again. "Never talk bad about your grandpa."

"What?"

"He was a real American hero, just never do it, okay?" Hamilton nodded, slowly, confused. "He was such a coward. He never paid me any attention and never gave me a reason. I mean, I know, _why_, but-" Eisenhower choked back his words suddenly and forcibly. He started again. "After your grandma ... he got quiet. Can you see that? A quiet Holt." he scowled again. "Ain't natural."

Honestly, Hamilton could. He would never share that with Eisenhower- but not in fear for himself. Eisenhower _wasn't_ a failure as a father, and there shouldn't be any lingering doubts otherwise. Hamilton realized this was the first time he needed to protect his dad. In the past, the most he felt obligated to do was defend his honour. Now, looking after his father, the man held in such reverent regard all these years, felt odd, maybe uncomfortable, but undeniably necessary. "Why'd you tell me that, Dad?"

"Because I needed to. You need to know ... what can happen now."

Hamilton didn't understand. He never would.

"I- ... knew you didn't want to go." They looked at one and other again, the strangeness of the open conversation blistering the sturdy view they had of each other. "To West Point. I knew."

Hamilton knew his father wasn't just saying that for comfort or condolence. The truth had been discovered before- maybe it'd been the lofty tone he'd used suggesting the school, the lack of true enthusiasm expected, or maybe something along the lines of Father-knows-best- or maybe something a little less ridiculous, he didn't know.

Frankly, he didn't care to. It was a blessing.

Hamilton wiped the last remnats of his tears away, and stood.

Eisenhower watched, positively, absolutely dumbfounded. "You're all right, Hammer?" It came out a little more incredulous than intended.

Hamilton stopped. "I have to be. I've got a conference call tonight, and it's video."

His father's eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "With who?"

"Madrigals," he shrugged, opening a door. "Duh."

Like it was no big deal.

(o)(O)(o)

_A/N: So, sorry, the noise sound affect at the top was Mrs. Holt's minivan door closing, and it was faint because they heard it from the back of the house. I just wanted to make that clear, because I never actually said what it was. (Now, there was a real reason I had those there, besides similarity.)_

_I'm so excited for any and all feed-back, and I'm so grateful for anything- even if you just want to favourite, it's still very appreciated._

_This is DLT, signing off._


End file.
